Guile
by fallingcomets
Summary: "It is a sickness of the mind. It has eaten away yours with sweet words and venomous intent and only now has it taken root in my own." Dark!Revolutionary War one-shot.


A dark!Revolutionary War one-shot, so be warned a little.

/

It rots you from the inside out. How steadily and smoothly it grows, devouring everything in sight until nothing remains but pure satisfaction and power. Your insides are rotten, your lungs are black husks, your stomach has corroded away, and your heart has frozen into a rock. It's a sickness of the mind you crave. More territory, more trade, more power, more status, more, more, more until you've devoured everything. All that will be left is you, an animated corpse with sockets for eyes and metal for your skin. You will bear your teeth, snarl and curl your lips, the image of an animal protecting its territory. You say it's rightfully yours, the meaning and impossible reasons melting into a pot of selfish pride. You will say it wasn't your fault, oh how can it be when they were there for the taking, weak compared to your roving finger?

Excuses, excuses, you are good at making them, good at executing them. Secrecy is your skill and the lies that spill from your lips turn sour and watered down over time. Did you think you had everyone played? They only wanted to watch you spiral down because they are sick too, they can't wait until you keel so they can harvest your reapings like lions in the wild. It's all nature, only you embrace the animalistic and selfish side. But you become sloppy as the iron skin of your flesh rusts and turns brittle. Any failure can damage your pride and turn you to dust.

Shall I, the guileless brother you trust, be that failure?

A million words want to tumble out of me. Only descriptive words; all thoughts of forming them into something coherent sound fruitless. Why do you smoke? Does my tobacco draw your mind elsewhere from the dark crevices it has fit itself into? Perhaps your charcoal-black lungs wish only for more suffering.

I wait for the rain to melt you so you may seep down into Hell but you remain standing, you remain with calls for loyalty spilling out of your mouth repeatedly. You think of nothing else, not of the chains you hold wrapped around me, nor the noose you have adjusted to fit snugly around my neck. You are no longer sane, wanting only power and loyalty, and you do not second guess your decisions as I refuse and pull on my chains.

Your threats are nothing but the annoying buzz of an insect. They are watered down and know my bullet will pierce your flesh as I cut away my noose and break my chains. My bayonet will slice up your heart and your sick brain will be nothing but food for the crows.

You know nothing, I know all. You stick to the past but I knew, always knew that the sickness you carry would drive you to commit something like this. Perhaps I have inherited it but all that must be done is your end.

I blink. The rain pounds onto us. Your scarlet attire is dark like blood. As I fire, more blooms and drips down into the puddles that have formed. Your red dye is running but it is your essence that is now seeping out between your fingers. Your very soul, tarnished and burned by sin and greed, is leaking out of you so quickly that it is no coincidence it wants to leave your rotten body. That sickness is contaminating my soil this moment and your eyes turn up to me as I stand over your kneeling form, my blade staring at your emerald eyes that gleam with madness.

Oh yes, you have done it now. You have done this, this is your fault, no longer mine. What did you expect, my resources to always supply you while you cover my eyes and stuff my mouth with your sweet words? No more, no more loyalty shall be bestowed upon you from me. Some may follow but they will hear of me, of this moment as I knock you to your knees and make an empire as great as you kneel before me. I am your failure and will follow you for all eternity. This rain will never leave your flesh and your blood will forever stain this spot.

Your blood stains both my hands and my soil. This image will forever push me forward, this position of inferiority you hold as I stand above all else. My hands push you down into the mud as I wield my blade and drive it into your skull...

/

A.N:

Just a quick little thing I wrote up. I was going to change it to third-person, but I rather like it in first. This is narrated by America as he claims his independence from England.

I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes.


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